


The Riot of Spring

by theplatinthehat



Series: The Doctor and The Cellist [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Classical Music, Gen, Please Forgive me, adventures in time and space, this is so so self indulgent, we're travelling through time with a massive cello case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:33:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatinthehat/pseuds/theplatinthehat
Summary: Paris, 1913Cat Nicholls, part-time companion and music student, is desperate to see the very first performance of Stravinsky's ballet 'The Rite of Spring'.The Doctor is desperate not to.Chaos ensues.
Relationships: The Doctor & Original Female Character
Series: The Doctor and The Cellist [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704577
Kudos: 6





	The Riot of Spring

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series I'm calling The Doctor and The Cellist. Basically, I want to explore the idea of a part-time companion that interacts with all the new Doctors and how they navigate that friendship. This is an ongoing series which will include some flash-fiction, some short stories and some longer adventures.
> 
> I'd like to play around with this idea a little more, so if you like you can send a prompt with a time/place/Doctor/companion suggestion to my tumblr [theplatinthehat](https://tumblr.com/theplatinthehat) and we'll see what I can come up with. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this little story. I certainly enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Thanks to [picnokinesis](https://tumblr.com/picnokinesis) for beta-ing!

“Europe mid-Nineteenth century. No, that’s the wrong time period. Asia, early-Twentieth century – right time, wrong continent. Mars late-Thirty Third century – that’s wrong everything!”

Cat Nicholls leans back and calls into the TARDIS corridors.

“Doctor?”

There’s a crash, a bang and the sound of a wailing guitar from the console room.

“What!?” comes the grumpy, Scottish reply.

“Where do you keep your Twentieth Century European fashion?”

“Second left after the fancy dress cupboard.”

Cat rolls her eyes with an amused huff. “For _women._ ”

She can almost picture his expression of absolute befuddlement. “Well what on earth do you want that for?”

“I hate to break it to you, Doctor, but I am a woman.”

She gives him a few moments to take this information on board, again.

“Look,” she says, “just give me a section number and I’ll find it.”

“137.” There’s a small pause before he asks, “How long are you going to be?”

“Hopefully not too long now I’ve finally been given the correct directions.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you – ”

But Cat has stopped listening, and has resumed her quest to find the perfect outfit. She’s still not quite got the hang of the order the TARDIS keeps the clothes in (because let’s be real, it’s not the Doctor that’s organized this place) but she reasons there must be some kind of method in this supposed madness.

She soon finds the correct section and makes light work of searching the rails for the perfect 1900s Parisian outfit; a bright, flowing dress with loose sleeves and a beautiful fan to match. The hair comes easily, but the shoes are a bit trickier. None of them seem to fit. With a sigh, she elects to leave her normal pair on and hope that the hem of the dress is long enough to keep them obscured. The final touch is a wide smile and she makes her way back to the console room, following the sounds of the Doctor’s soft guitar playing.

She stands at the top of the steps and does a little twirl.

“What do you think?” she asks.

The Doctor doesn’t even look up from his guitar playing. “I think it could be worse.”

“Aww,” Cat replies, “that was almost a compliment.”

She feels part of her hair coming loose from its ‘do, so she pushes a panel of the wall aside to reveal a mirror. A few pins later and it looks, and feels, as though her hair will never come undone again.

“How did you know that was there?” the Doctor asks at her shoulder.

She jumps at his sudden appearance.

“What?”

“How did you know there was a mirror there? I didn’t know there was a mirror there.” He turns to address the TARDIS itself. “Did you know there was a mirror there?”

The TARDIS burbles affirmatively in reply.

The Doctor turns back to her, amazed. “How did _you_ know that was there?”

She laughs, and pats him on the shoulder. “You showed me. Or, at least, you _will_ show me. Gosh everything would be so much easier if we met in the right order, wouldn’t it?”

“For you, maybe.”

“Oh yes, of course,” Cat replies with a mock curtsey. “I bow to your superior knowledge of the timestream and all the wibbly, wobbly weirdness that comes with it.”

He scowls at the phrase. “I can’t believe I used to say that – ‘wibbly, wobbly,’ what was I thinking? Completely inaccurate.”

“You used to say ‘timey-wimey’ too.”

“Argh!” he replies, covering his ears, “please stop.”

“Alright, alright,” she comforts, dragging him down to the console. “Come on, then. Paris, May 23rd 1913! The Théâtre des Champs-Élysées. Aren’t you excited?”

The Doctor pauses for a moment, considering how brutally honest an answer he ought to give.

“No,” he replies finally. “Ballet is… not my thing.”

“Oh, come on,” she says, sidling up to him as he flicks switches and slams buttons, “you’ve gotta admit it’s a very impressive art form.”

“No, all I’ve got to admit is that I’d much rather be going to a different concert. How about the Crystal Stadium of Tarnia in the Fifty-Fifth Century? Incredible acoustics, especially when the performers match the harmonic resonance of the crystalline structure. What do you think? I’ll even get you ice cream – they put edible diamonds in their sundaes.”

Cat laughs, pulling a lever to hurry the Doctor along. “That does sound like fun, but sadly the curriculum at the university music department doesn’t cover music of the future – unless you could Lil Nas X.”

“I don’t.”

“To be fair, neither do the staff. Anyway, this is an important ballet – one of the most influential pieces of the Twentieth Century. You normally eat stuff like that up with a shovel.”

“Yes, well, Stravinsky can keep his rites and his spring where he found them. I’d sooner we didn’t go.”

“Well, I’d sooner we did. Besides it’s only a short performance – there’s a couple of pieces before the main event, but they’re good ones too. They’re even playing some Borodin.”

The TARDIS drops them off just round the corner from the theatre. The Doctor wants to sonic them in through the back door, but Cat insists that they do things properly and go through the main entrance.

“Isn’t this exciting?” she says giddily, looking up at the bas relief of the theatre. “I can’t believe it, we’re actually here for the premiere of _The Rite of Spring –_ one of Stravinsky’s finest!”

The Doctor follows her gaze and merely says, “It’s made of concrete, Cat. A theatre, made of concrete. I thought that the Parisians knew better than that.”

A couple of furious glances are levelled in their direction so Cat makes the wise decision to pull him away before any blows can be landed. They hurry up to one of the boxes for the best view. Cat leans out over the edge and looks down at the sea of chattering people. The excitement is palpable. The Doctor slumps down in one of the chairs, limbs flailing in all directions.

“That doesn’t look comfortable,” Cat quips.

“It’s fine,” he retorts grumpily.

The sound of an oboe rings out around the theatre – a lone, reedy ‘A’ that is soon followed by the rest of the orchestra tuning up. The audience hurries to take their seats. Cat follows suit, fan and hands folded neatly in her lap.

And then, the performance begins. It opens with a beautiful string melody, one of Cat’s favourite by Chopin – the prelude from _Les Sylhides_. She leans forward, craning her neck to get a better view of the orchestral pit. Her eyes come to rest on the cello section, and she can’t help but admire as they coax wondrous notes out of the wooden frames. She sighs.

“Aww, come now,” the Doctor says. “You play the cello much better than any of this nonsense. Bach, now _there’s_ a composer.”

Cat leans back and uses her closed fan to hit his leg with a satisfying _thwack!_

“What was that for?” he protests.

“You’re being a nuisance.”

“I can’t help that.”

“I _know,_ ” she hisses. “So why don’t you go and be a nuisance somewhere else?”

His eyes light up at the prospect. “Really?”

“Yes,” Cat replies with a grin. “Get out of here.”

The Doctor can’t believe his luck, and rushes out of the theatre before Cat can change her mind. Paris is a diverting city, he discovers, and he manages to entertain himself by blagging his way into a bakery and persuading the staff to provide him with as many pastries as he likes if he drums up a crowd for them. Using nothing more than a croissant and some sleight of hand, the bakery suddenly finds itself overwhelmingly popular and the Doctor has to leave with the pastries concealed in his jacket in order to push through the thronging masses.

He makes his back to the theatre with just five minutes spare. Cat is mesmerised by the action on the stage, but to the Doctor it looks like bizarre jumping, accompanied by equally bizarre music.

“I got you pastries,” he says.

“Shush!” Cat silences him, and waves at him to sit down.

Shrugging his shoulders, the Doctor begins to eat one of the pastries. The music and dancing proceeds to become more disjointed. A sense of unease ripples around the theatre. The audience isn’t quite sure what to make of the ballet.

“Are you actually enjoying this?” the Doctor asks loudly. “Or are you just pulling my leg?”

“Doctor!” Cat scowls.

“No, I’m being serious. Are you enjoying this?”

“Believe it or not, yes I am!”

He stands up, unimpressed. “Well,” he says, even louder, “I’m just shocked that this is what passes for ballet these days.”

“Doctor, please – ”

“Hey!” a voice calls from across the theatre. “Be quiet! Some of us are enjoying the music.”

“Pah!” another voice shouts. “This isn’t music, this is noise.”

“Ah,” the Doctor says with a smile, pointing in their direction. “Someone with some working ears.”

There are some nervous titters from the audience. Despite the heckling, the dancers and musicians bravely perform on.

“Why, you!” the first voice shouts. “Come down here and say that to my face!”

“Gladly.”

There’s now more heckling from different parts of the theatre. Everyone seems to have an opinion – an opinion they want to share loudly.

“Doctor, please sit down,” Cat begs, pulling on his arm.

One particularly loud argument bellows out around the theatre.

“Just because you still believe that Renaissance music is the highest form of art!”

“Well it’s certainly better than this codswallop,” comes the furious reply. “But I shouldn’t have expected a man of your status to have a refined taste.”

This comment is returned with a loud punch. Chaos breaks out. Insults are slung, fists are swung and any sense of decorum is lost to the wind. Cat stares down in disbelief.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she says.

“Nope,” the Doctor replies, taking her hand. “The Parisians tend to get upset by things like this.”

Cat grits her teeth. “They were managing just fine until you started complaining.”

The Doctor shrugs. “I’ve let them express their true feelings, and you humans believe that’s quite important.”

Cat sighs, and pulls the Doctor out of the box as the last chord of the ballet is played. “Come on, let’s get out of here before you can cause any more trouble.”

“That hurts, Cat. I don’t cause trouble. Trouble comes to me like… like… I don’t know but it follows me around.”

Cat kicks open the back door, not letting go of the Doctor’s hand for a second. “If it helps you sleep at night then fine.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

The riot has now broken out of the confines of the theatre and the two of them have to fight their way back to the TARDIS. Even Cat has to land a blow or two with her fan. They shut the door and lean back on the wood, breathing heavily.

“Cat, can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

“Why on earth did you want to go and see that dreadful ballet?”

Cat smiles and looks down at her feet. “That performance is famous,” she replies.

“Yes, yes, I know you said – ”

“Because,” Cat interrupts, “legend has it that a massive riot broke out because people had never heard this sort of music before. I wanted to see how it played out. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that _you_ would be the root cause.”

Realisation dawns on the Doctor’s face. “You were just there for the fight?”

“Yes, Doctor, I was there for the fight,” she admits.

They look at each other for a moment before they burst out laughing.

“Oh, that was fantastic,” he grins.

“Yes, it was. Now, did you say something about pastries?”

“Oh, I did,” he replies, sticking his hand into his pocket. “I worked very hard to – ”

He pulls a face and reveals his hand to be covered in cream and sugar.

Cat giggles at his appalled expression and drags him over to the console.

“Come on,” she says, beaming, “you and I have got a date with ice cream in the Fifty Fifth century.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first in a series I'm calling The Doctor and The Cellist. Basically, I want to explore the idea of a part-time companion that interacts with all the new Doctors and how they navigate that friendship. This is an ongoing series which will include some flash-fiction, some short stories and some longer adventures.
> 
> Why not send me a prompt with a time/place/Doctor/companion suggestion to my tumblr, [theplatinthehat!](https://tumblr.com/theplatinthehat)? Let’s have some fun in time and space!
> 
> Huge thanks to [picnokinesis](https://tumblr.com/picnokinesis) for beta reading!


End file.
